Page 35 of Alpha Unchained
I turn to Elena, brushing my thumb along her jaw. She leans into my touch, her eyes fierce.
"You just burned every bridge you ever crossed," she whispers, not with judgment, but with something closer to awe. "There’s no going back now."
"Then I guess there’s only one way left to go," I murmur. "Forward. With you."
Behind us, the pack murmurs, the air thick with restless energy. Decisions are being made. Allegiances redrawn. But I don’t look back.
Not yet.
Because I know Waylon is out there, watching from the shadows.
And I want him to understand without question exactly what he’s up against.
We don’t waste time. Hudson and I spend the next hour bent over old county maps spread across his war table, tracing themoonshiner trails that run like spiderwebs through the hills above the McKinley homestead.
I know these tunnels by heart—my blood built them. But Hudson brings more than muscle and strategy. He has contacts, resources, communications tech, and tactical insight that no wolf in the Hollow can match. And I know how Waylon thinks. Together, we come up with a plan.
"They’ll come for the clearing by Widow’s Bluff," Hudson says, tapping the map. "They’ll think it’s defensible, but the back side’s nothing but deadfall and shale. We can trap them between the west ridge and the old tunnel exit."
I nod, dragging my finger along the edge of the map. "And when they try to flank, we spring the trap from both sides. We use the tunnels to break their formation, wedge a line right through their center. We peel the Sable Rock mercs away from Waylon’s wolves, force them into unfamiliar ground where their tech won’t help them, and their firepower can’t follow. Once they’re split, they’re vulnerable—easier to isolate, easier to break."
"Divide and destroy," Hudson mutters, then looks up at me. "We’re going to have casualties. You ready for that?"
"I’m ready for it to end."
When night falls, the mountain comes alive—dark and electric, humming with the kind of promise only blood and vengeance can conjure. Mist laces the trees like a second breath, curling low and thick as the moon fights to break through the clouds. Every branch, every root, every old trail holds memory and meaning.
We don’t creep. We move with purpose—fluid, instinctive, a coordinated hush of limbs and breath slicing through thetrees. Shadows cling to us like second skins. The pack doesn’t need commands; they respond to the tension in the air, the shared rhythm of breath and footfall, the unspoken promise that tonight will demand everything. We move like wolves who know our history and finally have the chance to rewrite it.
Even the air seems charged, weighted with something more than mist and anticipation. It presses against our skin with the quiet insistence of an unseen witness, ancient and alert. The mountain itself feels aware—not passive, but poised, like it’s waiting to see who will be left standing come dawn.
We flank the clearing from three sides, some of us weaving through the narrow tunnels, others circling up the slopes to cut off the high ground. It isn’t smooth. Loose stone gives way underfoot. One of our runners twists an ankle, muffling a yelp as two others help him hobble away. One of Hudson’s men loses comms for a few crucial minutes—enough time for one of Waylon’s scouts to get too close. We take him out, but not before he radios a garbled warning.
That’s our first slip.
The second comes with the wind. It shifts. Carries our scent straight to the ridge. We know it the second we hear the sudden bark of orders echoing through the trees, the scratchy panic of humans on radios, and the clatter of weapons being prepped. Surprise is gone.
But not the plan.
The trap still holds.
The first shots crack through the trees, sharp and sudden, echoing off the ridge like a warning bell that’s come too late. Muzzle flashes spark in the dark, brief and brutal flares that light the bluff in jagged bursts. The humans open fire—panicked, uncoordinated, already reacting instead of leading. And that’s all the opening we need.
We descend like a storm without warning, silent until we’re not. From the tunnels beneath their boots and the canopy above their heads, we strike with precision and fury.
We lose two in the first rush. One to a tripwire grenade, another clipped by a sniper tucked in a tree stand we hadn’t scouted. Blood hits the air, sharp and metallic, turning the mist crimson in places. It’s chaos—but controlled.
I launch forward, the mist rising around me in a whirlwind of color and thunder as fur overtakes skin. The shift rolls through me like fire—fast, final. My wolf explodes out, raw power and rage in motion.
I hit the ground running, muscles bunching, jaws wide. The first target doesn’t even have time to scream. I tear through Kevlar and bone like they're nothing. We don’t just attack. We dismantle.
Gunfire. Screams. Growls. Flashbangs go off too close, blinding bursts that send a few of ours staggering. Hudson is bellowing orders through the chaos, rallying them. Flanking teams drive hard from the west while the tunnel teams emerge like ghosts, tearing into the center line.
One merc tries to detonate a thermal charge—too slow. My cousin Alaric tackles him, teeth bared. They roll through the dirt until one of the Rawlings tears the man’s throat out.
I catch sight of Hudson holding the line, fangs bared, blood streaking his flank. A Sable Rock shooter lines him up from behind a broken stump. I move fast and low, slamming into the human and sending his weapon skittering down the slope. My jaws snap once, twice—until he doesn’t move again.
And that’s when Waylon steps into my path.
